Chapter 13 #2
It’s hot in here. A sudden coolness curls around me—has he brought this meeting forward because his club found a good enough reason to make him fly back early?
A silver-haired chef joining us means I hold tight to that question, and I add meeting one of London’s premier restaurateurs to my list of Christmas surprises.
Robin Martin’s eyes are similarly piercing to how I first perceived Calum’s.
They’re more than icy enough to rule this kitchen as well as many others in his fleet of five-star restaurants.
“Seeing you tonight is no problem, Calum,” Robin promises.
“It sounded urgent. You know I’ll always make time for you. ”
This chef doesn’t miss my camera, and I wonder if he’ll tell me to stop recording until he tilts his head.
“My son keeps telling me to get back on the market. Get a good pic of my best side and I might have to add it to the dating profile he made for me.” He grins, ice shattered, and I have to be honest—I’m not sure he has a bad side to show me.
All he shows my camera is concern for a friend.
“You got bad news about how long you can stay?”
Merde.
I fucking knew it.
This is worse than worrying about whether a duckling is thriving. I’ve let myself get invested in someone whose problem is as opaque as the shell of that egg, and whose days here were always numbered.
Calum flicks a look at me across the table.
He’s no giant, right now. No gladiator on blades who won’t be beaten.
He isn’t a one-man hype squad either, like I’ve seen on ice rinks filled with children.
Calum is silent before dragging in the kind of deep breath that proves he’s athletic.
It goes on forever. So does a huffed exhale strong enough to blow out every candle in all of London’s restaurants.
He must be rattled to unzip his lips a little.
“They do want me back early, but I’m not volunteering.
Not until I get that sec—” He stops. Regroups.
Switches his focus. “Our project is top of my list to get squared away ahead of schedule, just in case they do come up with a contractual reason to make me.” His gaze meets mine again, if briefly.
“And I did want to ask another favour, Robin. But let’s hash out those provisional schedule changes first.”
Plates arrive, and I’m not usually easily distracted, but this array of individual mouthfuls beats almost anything I’ve ever eaten.
I’m on dry land on the wrong side of the English Channel, but as soon as I scoop a mussel from its shell, I’m blasted by a sea-salted reminder of the one home that mattered to me other than la Sylvie.
Just like that, I’m back in my grand-mère’s kitchen, carried there by a flavour I’ve missed each Christmas. I’m not much slower at eating a second forkful sprinkled with herbs and pure nostalgia, and I’m only aware that I’ve missed part of the conversation when Calum picks up his fork.
That doesn’t matter. My camera will have caught anything important. It had better, because Calum scoops his serving from his plate and deposits it on mine, still talking with Robin, all while silently telling me to go ahead and eat his portion.
I do that, and I must let out some kind of sound that rises above the noise of a working kitchen—both men watch me across the table. I mean, I guess Robin watches. I definitely hear him ask, “You like?”
It’s Calum I can’t look away from. Calum, who tracks the rise of my fork to my mouth.
And it’s Calum whose lips part slightly to mirror mine around another burst of familiar flavour.
“Oui,” I finally manage to get out. “This is meant to be mouclade, right?” I mop up the remaining sauce, humming around a taste of almost perfection, and if I ever wondered if I’d spent too much time around my father lately, this bluntness proves it. “It’s not bad.”
One of Britain’s top chefs blinks. “Not bad?”
I backtrack in a hurry. “It’s delicious.”
Across the table, Calum presses his lips together.
I’ve seen that look from him when kids trip over their own ice skates.
He smothers a smile while I stutter. “I-It must be delicious to take me right back to the last time I ate this.” I mentally count back.
“That would have been over fifteen years ago. I would have eaten that meal a lot slower if I’d known . . .”
I set down my spoon and fork.
Thank fuck there’s nothing left to eat on my plate. I’d choke if I tried to swallow another mouthful, which is stupid. I’m not an eight-year-old kid.
I bet Robin Martin didn’t earn all his Michelin stars by being sympathetic, yet that’s all I hear.
“My late wife was a great home cook. We lost her years ago, but I’d still kill for another of her roast potatoes.
Tried to make them the same way she did for our son when he was a nipper.
Keep her memory alive for him. Because that’s what food does, yes?
Takes you back to the people who mean the most. Especially at special family feasts. ”
I nod, then I focus hard on a spoon the same silver as his hair.
“Believe me,” he says oh, so gently. “Even if that dish wasn’t perfect, I’m delighted if it was a good reminder.”
I look up and meet kind eyes. Two pairs of them. That’s disconcerting. So is a top chef asking, “If my version is similar, but not entirely authentic, what would make it better?”
I flash a look at Calum, not sure how to answer, which isn’t usual for me.
If Dad had asked the same question, I might have told him that nothing he cooked for Christmas could ever come close.
In fact, I think I did a few times when I was young and too upset to mind my vocab.
I’d regret that if I wasn’t busy closing my eyes to visualise the tiled counter in a kitchen that now belongs to strangers.
I open them and list ingredients that so many trips to a market in La Rochelle embedded.
Robin Martin calls another chef over, and I see a second familiar face of this evening, although I can’t quite place it. “Guy, listen to this.”
I recite that recipe for a second time, and both chefs make educated guesses about gaps in a little kid’s knowledge.
This second chef hums, one finger running over his nose while he thinks aloud in fluent French.
“White wine and something from another bottle. Wait a moment.” He’s only gone for a moment to raid a workstation. “This or this?” he asks.
I point.
“Dry vermouth. Got it.” He leaves us, and I know Calum and Robin talk schedule changes for something that had been off-limits until now. I’m aware of their conversation, yet I can’t help turning to watch the other chef in action.
“Go,” Calum murmurs. His gaze lowers to my chest mount. “Leave your camera. I’ll make sure you don’t miss any primo loser material.”
I’m not sure he’s ever been further from that label, but add me watching a chef chop parsley and count out threads of saffron to my rapidly expanding collection of unexpected wishes getting granted.
Guy grinds spice, and between us, we figure out what else was missing.
Doing that in the language I used to dream in feels like another gift, un petit cadeau delivered to a very different kitchen than the one I took for granted right up until I couldn’t.
I leave Guy to let his sauce reduce and thicken and return to the table where I remount my camera just in time to hear Calum say, “Okay. That’s gonna keep me really busy. But better safe than sorry, just in case they do come up with an excuse to—”
Make him leave early.
I’ve never wanted anything less, and Calum clears his throat like he also can’t stand to voice it.
“Now the only other thing I need is that favour I mentioned—”
His phone rings, and I won’t need to replay these moments later on my laptop to notice the way he freezes at getting a call after midnight.
Again, Robin is gentle. “If that’s America, maybe you should take it.” He stands. I do too when, if I ever wanted to make Calum look like a loser, this could be my chance to do it.
He looks smaller somehow.
Fearful.
I hate that almost as much as I hate him saying, “It’s my agent.”
He doesn’t need to run a fingertip across his lips to tell me this is off-limits. I leave the table and let Robin take me on a late-night tour of a kitchen where London’s top chefs collaborate after hours all because of Calum.
Robin explains how that happened. “I started these food prep sessions years ago with the help of friends like Guy, but we reach so many more people now that Calum funds the entire project.”
“Project?”
“To feed families who have a loved one in city hospitals over Christmas. I started out cooking for patients the same way I used to do for my wife when she was . . .” He shakes his head.
“Calum reminded me that it can be tough on the whole family if they’re apart for the holidays.
Even worse if they’re far from home. That happens a lot in London’s specialist hospitals.
Those patients and their families are miles away from their own kitchens, so we take requests and cook something extra special for them.
Prep and deliver those meals every evening in December to let them know they aren’t alone.
Everyone involved in the project has been there in one way or another, either struggling with their health or with caring for someone while apart from their own support systems.”
I look back at Calum, who is still engrossed in a call that should spike my curiosity. The thought of him being lonely at Christmas spikes me even harder.
Robin stirs a pan full of a glossy sauce. “This is the first year he’s been here to deliver any of those dinners. He’s loved doing it, especially on the children’s wards.” He eyes me, and his voice lowers. “He kept you very quiet. Calum’s so good at that.”
“Good at what?” I glance around again. Calum is still on his phone, and I’ll have to delete this footage later. No way would I let the world see his shoulders bowing.
Robin is focused on his sauce. And on me. “He’s good at keeping private what matters the most to him.”
It’s the perfect moment for Calum to look up, and for me to spy relief instead of worry.
Who the fuck knows what my face does to make Robin smile.
He continues stirring. “I’m just saying that he’s never brought anyone here apart from family.
And he was insistent that I feed you something from La Rochelle. ”
“He told you where I come from?”
“Tell me?” Robin snorts. “He did more than that. Calum looked up local recipes for me. Gave me a boatyard address and asked me to deliver meals there when he’s in Cornwall with his family.
Said he wanted you to have a Christmas dinner to remember.
Was quite insistent that I make enough for two even though he’d be away. ”
To share with Dad.
“Of course, I couldn’t help wondering who you are to him.”
I choke out, “There’s nothing to wonder.” At least there won’t be soon enough, even if that look of relief means maybe Calum just got a reprieve from leaving England early. I take another glance his way, and I know this kitchen is busy, full of chefs cooking for families stranded far from home.
I don’t see any of them.
I just see Calum still on his phone, listening to his agent, but I’ve got all his attention. At least, my hand does. It rubs at the centre of my chest. That’s where his gaze fixes in the same way I know my own has whenever he’s whispered affirmations to an unborn duckling.
Now he ends his call and crosses the kitchen, gaze rising from the spot where my hand struggles to hold my heart in. “Hey,” he says softly. “I have to head off. My agent has business stuff to run by me. A video call that can’t wait, but before I go, what did I miss?”
What did he miss?
Just me falling for a hockey player who keeps coming in clutch for other people.
Thank fuck Robin leaves us or he’d see me grasp the counter. I need something to steady me since Calum knocked my whole world off its axis and only took the first half of December to do it. Now all I want is for him to do that for even longer.
“Tell me,” he murmurs. There’s no need for him to muscle his way any closer to me.
He already fills my whole field of vision, and I should zip my lips the same way he has so often, should keep my thoughts to myself, given that this is temporary.
Finite. Not going anywhere once he leaves for Cornwall.
I can’t shut up.
“I like you so fucking much.”
The kitchen is noisy. I’m not sure if he heard me. Pots clang and blenders whir so loudly that I shouldn’t be able to hear his answer.
I do.
“Good,” Calum tells me.
Nothing drowns out how much he means this.
“The feeling’s mutual.”